Chords
by Brandytook
Summary: Charlie's dealing (rather poorly) with drug withdrawal, one-shot, stream-of-conciousness type story. Takes place shortly after 'The Moth'.


I own nothing, never have never will, I would do horrible, horrible things for Charlie, but we will not speak of that.

Charlie sat, curled around his guitar, willing teardrops to stay in his eyes. If they remained unshed, he could pretend later they hadn't been there.

The tears made his eyes shine, the quickly collecting moisture he would not let fall creating a bright, vivid blue, revealing more of his secrets than he was aware. Any one who looked could see the sadness spelled out on his face; he knew they were all carefully avoiding glancing at him. Just as he was making sure not to look at them.

He hunched even farther over the guitar, fiddling at a chord. Changing it from major to diminished to minor. Moving it up a third, down a fifth. Trying to find the perfect sound to encapsulate his despair.

He knew there were notes somewhere on this guitar, somewhere in his head, notes that could make the forest ring, make everyone stop to think, to remember how cruel and pointless the world was. Maybe if the seventh was flat. But that only created a dissonance, not the full tone he wanted.

He choked back a sob and his hands shook, slipping, and making the chord dominant. He convulsed, momentarily tempted to hurl the guitar toward a tree. The feeling passed, and he gripped it closer to him, hugging it to his chest. His eyes darted up, staring at the people around him, making sure no one was coming close, to offer him comfort, or an awkward attempt at small talk, some equally meaningless thing.

A deep breath, a sigh, he stared back down at the forest floor. The hood of his sweatshirt falling forward and obscuring his face, hiding his matted hair, his trembling lip, his glistening eyes from the encampment that was so determined not to look at him.

Then he saw it fall, and seep into the forest floor. That hadn't come from him. He wasn't crying. These tears had not existed, so they couldn't be falling now.

But there they were, soaking into the earth, and spreading outward. He watched them disappear, disconnecting himself from the contortions his face went through as he cried. Instead he focused on the image of the water finding it's way underground toward everyone else in the camp, it was all running away from him, spreading his sorrow.

He dragged his hand over the guitar strings again, listening to the simplest sound you could get from it, the first noise anyone made on the instrument E A D G B E. The guitar vibrated along with its lowest string, sending shudders through Charlie's body. He plucked it again, and again, keeping the vibrations going, sending them out into the forest.

His nose was dripping now, he wiped his sleeve angrily across it and started picking out the melody to 'Her Heart'. He'd been so proud of that song, he'd felt like he'd managed to get something across, like he'd finally touched someone. Which struck him as horridly pompous now, he'd made the whole song up. There was no "Her", not for him at least, maybe it had meant something to Liam.

It all seemed so pointless now, he could remember all the blank stares that had greeted him only a week before. "I'm the bass player for Driveshaft."

No one cared.

He didn't even care anymore.

He had dug himself into a pit of despair and he was going to remain there. Letting his still falling tears pull everyone else into the pit too, until all of them sat huddled and reminiscing, poring over past mistakes.

He didn't know why he was felt like making everyone else miserable, but they all seemed so god-damned optimistic, none of them willing to admit that they were doomed. Half an hour ago he'd been the same way, hoping against hope. No it was completely obvious to him that it was idiotic.

He glared around again, holding the guitar in front of him almost defensively, ready to push it at anyone who came near. They were _not_ going to touch him, they were not going to try and make him feel better.

He was going to remain seething and depressed, at least for another half hour.


End file.
